


Dark Nights and Swelling Dreams

by infinityonfic



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: warning: nightmares, warning: self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:17:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinityonfic/pseuds/infinityonfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic prompt: pete wakes up from a bad dream in a cold sweat puking or whatever and he calls in sick to practice or what the fuck ever fob does when they arent on tour. so the rest of the guys get together and gather up all the things pete likes best and bring em to his house ^u^ like soup and buckets of eyeliner or whatevs (@frankierosbuttblog on tumblr)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Nights and Swelling Dreams

It’s not real.

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.

He fists the sheets and struggles, arching up and biting his lip in attempt to endure the pain. He can feel it. He can feel every screech, every helpless cry, and every hair-raising sound. He can feel the burn in his veins, and the way that he’s being held down, forced to take the pain. There’s no escape. There never is. 

It’s always the same. When they’re not on tour and Pete’s alone, it’s always like this. He’ll go to sleep scared, only with the influence of pills, and wake in a cold sweat. The nightmares are always intense; always breaching his deepest thoughts and pulling out his demons at the one time he can’t escape them. 

They’ve been getting worse recently. Before, they were just noises, shapes, sounds, faceless and amorphous creatures, but now there were scenes; blood, guts, gore, and people. He’s fine with the horror scenes – he’s played enough games to get used to the whole apocalyptic feel, but he’s never had people. Faces flash past his, jerking and then floating away as if they’re apparitions. They’re never nice, though. They always scream, and he’s forced to lie there and watch every second, unable to escape. 

And then there’s something he’s not really seen before, and as he focuses, Pete freaks out, still fixed to the floor. The band. The three guys, yelling, tearing at each other. Pete tries to look away, to turn his head or shut his eyes, but everywhere he looks, he sees nothing but that. He grunts in frustration, and almost screams, but then they turn to look at him. They look angry and start stalking towards Pete, lips curled in snarls. “You!” They yell. There’s an echoing chorus of the words, biting at his conscience. The voices don’t sound like theirs, but they look like them. All three, Andy, Joe, and even Patrick keep screaming at him and getting closer, and the closer the get, the more Pete wants to shrivel up and die. But there is no escape from this. You can’t die in a dream.

Pete shoots up in his bed, eyes finally open. He can’t feel a thing, and he can’t see anything except for every single hollow face that appeared in the dream. He pulls on his hair, trying to clear it all out, but it’s not use. He scratches at his arms and tries to get the crawling sensation out of his skin to no avail. He scratches more and more until his arms look red and raw, white streaks of his nails trailing the length of his arm. There’s no way to think in this moment. 

His phone rings, and Pete stops abusing himself, looking disappointedly at his arms. He has yet to draw blood. 

“Hello?” He says, trying to keep his voice stable.

“Pete?” It’s Patrick. Pete rubs his face and tries to slow down his breaths. “I was checking if you needed a lift for practice today, but you sound a little off. Is everything okay?”

Pete coughs and forms an excuse. “Yeah, I’m just – sick, is all. I’ll have to skip today.”

“Okay. You want me to come over? Do you need anything?”

Pete’s stomach unclenches a little, and the tension starts to leave him. “I’m fine. Don’t worry so much.”

Patrick pauses on the line and replies, “If you say so. But call if you need anything, yeah?” Pete hums. Patrick sounds more worried than he should be if Pete is just sick. He figures his tone of voice has tipped Patrick off. After all, no one knows him better than Patrick. 

“Alright, I’ve got to go. I might drop in after practice or something. Take some cold medicine or something,” Patrick suggests, and then hangs up. 

It’s like the tension returns with the absence of Patrick’s voice. He feels alone again, and even though he can see his bed, his feet, the walls, Pete can still see the faces when he shuts his eyes, or even blinks. 

He pads over to the kitchen and makes himself some coffee, sitting down on the couch. It’s okay until his eyes begin to hurt, and he has to shut them. He sees it all again, just as vividly as when he was asleep, and it’s getting to him. He opens his eyes, and for a split second, Pete swears he sees the scene in front of his eyes. 

He turns the TV off and puts his mug in the sink when he’s done, and goes back to his room, back against the headboard. He pulls the covers up around him and pulls out a notebook from under the pillow he never uses, taking the pen out of the binding and thinking of words to write. He’s conflicted. He can’t make words that sound eloquent and angry, not when he’s like this. So Pete resorts to writing anything he can, and soon he begins drawing dark, harsh lines across the page, hatching lines this way and that. Eventually, the middle of the page is covered with ink. Suddenly, the close-knit lines begin to blend together, and the darker blots of ink turn into images. 

He throws the notebook onto the floor in frustration and tugs at his hair. In the corner of his eyes, he notices his red arms. Pete looks at them stoically and runs his fingers over the scratches and bumps. He hisses, because it does hurt a bit, but he doesn’t stop. It’s a better distraction that everything else. Every time he does it, Pete presses a little harder, feels the burn a little more.

He hears a knock at the door and sighs. Pete ignores it though; figuring whoever it is will leave if he doesn’t go to the door. It’s too early.

Whoever it is knocks again, and Pete groans, digging his fingers deeper into his flesh. 

“Pete!” Someone yells, and Pete knows that voice. He knows it more than his own. He told Patrick not to come, why is he here? 

Pete grabs a jumper and pulls it on, making sure that the long sleeves cover his arms. 

He sees a flash of the scene again, and Pete doesn’t want to open the door. What if – what if Patrick's going to yell at him?

Pete's halfway to the front door, but doesn't go any closer.

“Pete, open the door!”

He bites his lip, but the consistent yelling and knocking persuade him to at least put his hand on the door handle. 

“Pete, I’ll drop all this on your porch and leave a mess if you don’t open up right fucking now!” 

Curiosity getting the better of him, Pete opens the door to find Patrick with his arms full of – of things.

That’s not all. Andy and Joe are behind him, carrying almost just as much as Patrick. Pete stands, mouth wide open as he watches them all struggle. “Move it,” Patrick mumbles, shoving past Pete and dumping all the stuff on a table. He sets everything in some sort of order, and Pete simply stares as the other two do the same.

“What - ” 

“We’re not going to have practice without you. If you’re sick then we might as well hang with you at least, make you feel better or something,” Patrick explains. He rolls his eyes when Pete does nothing and drags him over to the table. 

“Here,” Andy begins, pointing at a stack of DVDs, “are a bunch of movies we’re gonna watch. We have games too, and you have wifi so we have Netflix at our disposal.”

“And,” Joe jumps in, “I made you some soup. Andy insisted we all have some, so I had to make it to his standards, so don’t blame me if vegan soup isn’t the tastiest.” Andy smacks Joe around the head jokingly and crosses his arms feigning annoyance. 

“We have a bunch of other things ready for you,” Patrick announces, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll stick around for as long as you can handle us, and call in for some pizza. For now, we sit and watch some TV. Oh! Yeah, I have this stuff too,” Patrick remembers, pulling out a small brown bag. Pete looks inside and sees two eyeliner pencils among other tidbits of products, and he smiles, though still a little confused, and totally caught off guard. Once he puts it down, Patrick thrusts a large, fluffy blanket into his arms.

“C’mon,” he orders, and the three of them follow Patrick into the sitting room, settling onto Pete’s couch. Andy, Joe and Pete huddle at one end, leaving a space at the end for Patrick to jump in once he’s done setting up the first movie and bringing the food in. 

As soon as Patrick takes his seat, Pete throws the blanket across all four of them and graciously takes the bowl of soup Patrick hands him. He’s wedged in the middle, and as trapped as he feels, it’s really, really nice. He still sees the vision. But with the guys right next to him, being there for him, and not yelling at him, Pete feels safe. He feels like they care, like he’s not too bad. When the first movie starts playing and Patrick cuddles up against Pete a little, Pete looks at his friends. He glances over to the table full of stuff, and smiles. 

He’s okay. For now, he’s okay.


End file.
